"Haha."
"Haha."
Watching Ollie and Ronan doubled over laughing like they'd lost their minds, Maxim's face twisted into a look of pure disbelief. He turned to Cliff. "Do we need to call an exorcist for these two?"
His first instinct was to ask Alice—she knew Ronan best, after all.
But after three months together, Maxim, like the rest of the band, had gotten used to tuning Alice out. She was like a ghost—always there, quietly filming everything with her camera, just as she'd asked them to get used to from the start. They'd learned to live with it, ignore it, and just be themselves.
Right now, Maxim's gaze drifted toward Alice but skipped over her lightly, circling around before landing back on Cliff.
Cliff, focused on waiting for their luggage, totally missed the sarcasm in Maxim's jab. He answered absently, "No time for that, remember? We've got rehearsal coming up soon. Where's the room for random stuff like this?"
Maxim: "…"
He didn't say a word, but his eyes were doing all the cursing for him.
"Hahaha!" Ollie and Ronan caught the mismatched exchange between Maxim and Cliff with perfect timing. It was offbeat but somehow clicked, and their laughter roared even louder.
Ollie's earth-shaking cackle was especially destructive—like a sonic boom. Nearby passengers shot annoyed looks their way, clearly fed up with the noise pollution. But seeing Ollie and Ronan's hulking frames, anyone itching to complain thought twice and stayed put.
Maxim's forehead was a map of dark lines.
Amid the chaos of giggles, the band's luggage rolled in one by one. Everything went smooth—no hiccups. They grabbed their bulky bags and hauled them out of the airport. No time to hit the parking lot for a rental, though—they had to bite the bullet, dig into their wallets, and hail two cabs to head from the airport toward downtown.
Unlike the endless clear skies of the Midwest and West, the East hit different right from the landing. A gray blanket hung overhead, hinting at the shift. This city, marked by the White House, carried a deep, heavy vibe—worlds apart from the flashy, carefree buzz of Las Vegas.
A whole new scene unfolded slowly before their eyes.
Straight, wide streets stretched out, flanked by low, slate-gray buildings. No towering skyscrapers blocked the view—just stiff, crisp lines slicing the horizon into neat, orderly chunks. Deep greens, brick reds, and navy blues drowned in waves of gray, like a giant tide crashing down.
Then, a flash of white caught the eye.
A patch of white nestled in wide, flat green, the view stretching open and vast. The contrast sharpened everything—the white reflecting the stacked gray sky above, like two mirrored worlds meeting at the peak of that white dome. It made you wonder what scenes played out beneath the white and above in the gray.
Ronan pressed against the cab window, quietly watching the world slide by, trying to soak in the colors, the people, the moments with his eyes.
When they reached the hotel, the band couldn't help but feel a little stiff. The grand, spotless lobby—polished and plush—made their steps slow instinctively. It was a stark leap from the cramped, stuffy, bare-bones motels they were used to, like stepping from hell into heaven.
Well, calling a motel "hell" wasn't quite fair. They'd had a roof and walls to keep out the wind and rain—plenty of folks had it worse. The comparison didn't really hold up. Still, the hotel's vibe was so different it put them on edge, their inner "don't make a scene" alarm blaring loud and clear.
Las Vegas had its share of five-star spots too, but those were "resort" hotels—built for vacation vibes. Totally different feel.
Those places packed in shopping streets, food courts, concerts, acrobatics, tourist traps—all crammed into one space, a little world of its own. You could live there for a year or two without stepping outside and still find an old-school barber shop if you wanted.
So even though Vegas hotels were open to all, they felt more like wandering a theme park than staying in a "hotel." Hard to tie the surroundings to the idea of crashing for the night.
But stepping into the Hilton? That was a whole other story—elegant, serene, orderly.
A refined guy flipping through a newspaper in the lobby. Business types in sharp suits hustling toward the ground-floor bar. A couple with vacation hats and floral dresses griping about their trip as they checked out. Kids darting through the halls, shattering the calm with bursts of laughter.
Every little detail screamed: This is a five-star hotel.
And then there was the bellhop, stepping up with a warm smile and a gentle tone, taking the bags from Cliff's hands.
"Hold on—" Cliff almost blurted out a refusal, but he caught the sidelong glances from around the lobby. Swallowing it back, he squared his shoulders and handed over the luggage, keeping his unease under wraps.
It wasn't until they were in the room, the bellhop gone and the door shut, that Cliff started to feel the sting—
Ten bucks for a tip.
For the One Day Kings, it wasn't that they couldn't afford it—it just felt like an unnecessary splurge. Especially after shelling out for cabs.
Cliff even marched over to the next room, banging on the door. When Ollie answered, he didn't waste a second. "How much did you guys tip?"
"…Twenty," Ollie said, caught off guard but thinking it over. He answered casually, only to hear Cliff suck in a sharp breath.
Ollie chuckled. "It's just one time. My drums and Ronan's keyboard—they're heavy. They hauled it all up for us, so we had to show some thanks."
Cliff looked like he was about to pass out. "How can you not care? That's a whole night's lodging, and you just tossed it out as a tip!"
"Heh, it's a one-off. No big deal," Ollie said, still carefree, totally missing why Cliff was stressing.
Cliff's chest tightened with frustration.